


Memory Coated in Red

by youaremybeeloved



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Possession, Angst, Blood and Injury, Guilt, Hurt No Comfort, Memory Loss, Minor Character Death, Past Abuse, Played fast and loose with the canon, Ranbutler POV, Ranbutler escapes, Web Series: Tales from the SMP, does the egg count as possession?, i found out that the masquerade and the western were in the same time period, kind of, set about a week or so after the events of the shootout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:15:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29468565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youaremybeeloved/pseuds/youaremybeeloved
Summary: What if when Sir Billiam blew through town he took more then just money? What if after months of mistreatment, the Butler finally escaped--------He’s never wanted to hurt anyone.He’s not sure what he wanted.The past is a murky, blurry mess.Memories are scattered, he doesn’t know why.Maybe it was the creature, it had dug its vines into his mind and body, jumbling him about without remorse. Stealing what was good, leaving only blood.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 137





	Memory Coated in Red

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Abuse. Mentions of Murder. Mentions of Death. Injury. Weapons
> 
> (That should be it but let me know if there's more I should tw! Stay safe!)

The last thing he remembers is pain. A terrible ache clawing his empty stomach, day after day after day. Bruises and cuts he doesn’t remember getting.

Blood.

He remembers blood. On his hands, on his clothes, on a sword. In his mind, clouding his senses. Instructing him with a grip so callous he mistook it for care.

As he scrabbles through a never-ending forest, panting and trembling, he remembers more.

Hunger. Not his own, otherworldly hunger.

They hadn’t fed it enough. He’d been willing, filled with purpose. To feed it was an honour.

With the first sloppy cut had come clarity. Only a moment, but enough.

Blood still oozes from the cut on his arm, deep and painful.

The Master was strong but pampered, careless. A moment was all it took for the butler to steal back the sword and return it tenfold.

The body left on the floor gave him no guilt, but his stomach still turns at how familiar it felt.

He’s killed the Master, and he’s killed before.

He’s never wanted to hurt anyone.

He’s not sure what he wanted.

The past is a murky, blurry mess.

Memories are scattered, he doesn’t know why.

Maybe it was the creature, it had dug its vines into his mind and body, jumbling him about without remorse. Stealing what was good, leaving only blood.

There must have been good, once. He would not be so horrified with himself if there wasn’t.

The sun has set and risen once more since he fled, the forest wakes as he collapses. The screaming in his head falls into bitter silence, every inch of him aches.

Though it’s painful, he can’t help but shake.

His shirt and pants, his prized possessions, he’d been so careful with them before. The only set he’d been allowed, they weren’t even his own, nothing was his own, but he was able to pretend. Now the starched white fabric is set with dried blood, dark crimson stains he can’t bear to look at. It’s all torn, in the knees, in the torso, in the arm where the Master had attacked. He thinks it was meant to hit his heart, he thinks the Master may have been drunk. On liquor or power, he does not know. Does it matter, in the end?

His hands are dyed red as well, his vision swims just looking at them.

All he remembers is blood and pain and hunger and hate.

He hates it all.

He punches the dirt, nicking a root on the forest floor as he does. He hardly notices among the cacophony of pain that rings under his skin.

Pulling himself to his knees, he remembers, he has to.

There’s something, a bright spot in all of the darkness and red. Something he can’t quite reach.

Familiarity in a way that makes his skin tingle with a warmth unlike anything he’s felt in ages.

It’s enough to keep him afloat in his mind as he sags back against the trunk of a tree, his eyes slipping helplessly shut, overcome by bone deep exhaustion.

He dreams of many things.

He sees flashes of red, hears piercing cries and pleas for mercy. He feels cold, slimey vines crawl over him, into his hair, his chest, his heart. He loses himself in something he doesn’t understand.

He sees the master, hears his disapproval. He feels loss, soul crushing loss. There’s light and warmth for only a moment before a hand wraps around it, crushing it between punishing fingers. Leaving only red eyes and a masquerade mask behind.

It’s night again when he finally wakes. There’s leaves littered across his prone body as though the Earth has tried to reclaim him as he lay unconscious. For a moment he contemplates just staying where he is, letting the Earth swallow him up so he never has to remember what he’s done.

But that light flashes in his minds eye, and this time it looks like a smile. The warmth sounds like a laugh.

He knows he has to keep moving, remembering, searching. There’s something he’s missing. Something he has to find.

It gives him the strength to get to his feet. The shaking has stopped at least, but the terror is cold and present.

One foot, heavy on the ground, a sharp pain up his spine. Another step. Keep moving.

He remembers blood and pain and tears and hunger and hate, but there’s more. If only he can catch hold.

The Before is what he needs, because there must be something. The blood and the bad is blurry and vague but it’s fresh, new, recent. He had a life before it, he is certain. He  _ was _ someone before it. He hasn’t been someone in a long time.

The Master hadn’t let him be someone, he wasn’t even allowed a name. The farther he walks the more he thinks he used to have one. If he did, it’s been stolen from him. By slippery, persuasive vines and an unforgiving hand.

He forces himself to think as he walks, ruined shirt growing sticky with sweat. It’s a sensation he’s used to, he finds. Sweat, heat. There’s flashes, desert sand, tall green spiked plants he can’t name. Waves of heat dancing on the ground, blistering sun.

He wonders if that’s home.

He must have had one, at some point. The more he remembers the more convinced he grows. He remembers horses, riding through the desert afternoon. He remembers the cool metal of a gun, a long empty stretch of land with bales of hay stacked at its end. He almost thinks he remembers freedom, just a taste.

As the trees thin out he remembers sounds. Nothing like the caw of birds that follow him, or the stuffy silence and ominous hum of the mansion. 

He remembers loud, sharp shots. Grumbling, pouring of glass after glass, excited chatter, laughter.

His stomach complains loudly and his throat is parched but for just a moment his mouth floods with the taste of alcohol. Bitter and ruddy and nothing like the expensive wines and disguised poisons he’s grown accustomed to. It’s washed away by the memory of cool milk, a constant between the before and the during that almost makes him weak in the knees.

So recently, he’s kept it to counter the effects of poison, but he’s always kept a bottle on him. Even before the Master began to toy with his health. He wonders why.

The grass grows coarser beneath his feet, and the sun beats down mercilessly.

There’s something, someone important he’s missing. A blurred out silhouette at his side in so many memories. Yet whenever he focuses there’s a stab of pain in his skull and blinding red behind his eyes.

He falters and hits the dirt, palms scraping raw as he tries to brace himself. That desire returns, to give up, to lie still and sink into delirium. To eventually succumb to sweet oblivion. Then once more, that glimpse of a smile, a face. A gummy grin, shaggy dark hair and bright eyes, full of a life he doesn’t remember knowing. Nothingness will have to wait.

The longer he pushes on, the more he remembers. He remembers a bed, a room, a large window with a bright full moon. He remembers a crash and a shadow.

He remembers fear, he remembers taking someone's place. He remembers keeping someone safe, and most of all he remembers leaving someone behind.

The sun is sinking and he figures the ‘someone’ must be the source of the warmth, that smile.

In the distance he sees a structure, if there were any moisture left in his body he would cry. He trudges on, uncaring. There may be someone there, they may kill him, but if he doesn’t stop soon he’ll die regardless.

There’s no sounds from it as he grows closer. He finds a long burnt out campfire at its front, coals cool to the touch.

Like a miracle, hidden around back, is a trough. There’s muddy water sitting right in front of him and he doesn’t waste a moment.

His knees protest as he drops heavily down, scooping a handful of the grubby water to his mouth and drinking greedily. It’s warm and it tastes like dirt, but it’s all he can do not to simply dunk his head in.

The front of his shirt grows damp from his haste and his stomach sloshes. He forces himself to stop, even though he craves more. He can’t make himself ill. The water offers him a moment of lucidity. He hasn’t come this far just to die.

He’s survived, he’ll keep surviving. For them, whoever they are.

Returning to the front of the tent, he pushes open the flap to find it abandoned. There’s three bedrolls pushed into one corner, and pack litter the floor on the other. He yearns to rest, but soldiers on, rummaging through the packs for anything of use.

At the bottom of one, he finds a pouch. With it comes an aroma that makes his mouth water and his stomach twist, inside lies strips of dried meat and he whoops.

His voice is rough from disuse, cracked like the skin of his hands and feet. The meat barely lasts a minute, he can’t help himself. It’s the best thing he’s eaten in his life, even if his stomach protests.

In another pack he finds a set of clothes, nearly big enough. They’re short, but his shirt reeks of sweat and blood and horror, so he doesn’t hesitate, tearing the buttons as he hurries to change.

The fabric is scratchy compared to the dress shirt Master gave him, but it feels safe, new. He slips on a new pair of pants as well, they’re looser, he thinks they’ll be more comfortable to travel in. He must be heading in the right direction if he’s found this place. Maybe he’ll find a town and someone will recognize him. Maybe  _ they _ will recognize him.

In the corner stands a mirror, dusty and cracked. He’d noticed when he first arrived, but he’d tried to forget it was there. He didn’t want to be faced with the blood, the man he’s become.

Yet, clad in new clothing, he dares to look.

In the mansion, there had been a number of mirrors, Though it’s been merely days since he last looked in one, it feels like he’s looking at a stranger.

The dead look in his eyes is gone, not quite alive, but it’s better then before.His hair is unkempt and caked with grime. The clothes are baggy around his skinny frame, he can’t help but feel like he used to be stronger. Intimidating. There’s nothing intimidating about the man that stares back at him.

There’s blood too, smeared by water across his face and chest and arms. Red and angry.

There’s more blood on his knuckles when he crawls into one of the bedrolls and finally lets himself drift off.

His dreams are no calmer.

He dreams of a comforting hand, and one that is exactly the opposite. He dreams of red, of being taken.

He hears the Master say that every lord needs servants. He hears someone calling a name he can’t remember as he’s dragged into the night.

He dreams of defiance, of losing it, of giving in. Of horror and desperation and longing.

When he wakes, it’s with understanding.

He wakes with a memory.

He remembers a laugh, a smile, a hope. Love. He remembers his baby brother, and he finally allows himself to sob.

There’s no telling how long he sits there, chest heaving, overwhelmed with recognition. When he calms, he finds more understanding.

He doesn’t remember who he is, not yet. He remembers a tavern, he remembers a Father telling him of generations of history that will belong to him when his parents pass on. He remembers that day coming far sooner then he’d thought.

He remembers working to keep it afloat to care for a brother he was charged with protecting. He can’t remember how old, a few years younger then himself, he thinks. There’s no name for his face and it almost hurts as bad as not knowing his own.

He remembers clearly now, the night he was taken. He’d been protecting his brother, they’d gone for the younger one first.

Acting with purpose now, he drinks from the trough before washing off as much blood and grime as he can. Once more he searches through the packs, finding a waterskin a little over half full and another pouch of meat. It’s not much, but it should keep him going for the next couple days. Hopefully there will be a town before then.

He steals a hat as well, laying beside the bedrolls. He debates taking one of those too but decides it will only slow him down.

Sending a silent thanks to whoever it is that granted him shelter, he carries on into the warm daylight of morning.

Now that he’s farther from the creatures clutches, and in slightly better health, it’s easier to remember. There’s a number of blanks. Names, dates, places, events. Voids where they should be found, stolen. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get those back.

It’s only a few hours before more silhouettes appear in the distance. Real buildings, lots of them.

He tries to pace himself, stay calm, but in minutes he’s running. Gangly and unbalanced he flies across to dusty desert. Closer, it’s familiar, his heart sings. It looks like the place in his memories, the place where his brother is.

If it weren’t already so hard to breathe he’d be laughing. He plans to go right for the tavern, but he’s stopped by loud noises.

The door to the shop is open, he remembers the shop. He remembers his brother being too nervous to lift things from it when they were tight on cash. Voices come from inside. He looks at the tavern, still a ways down. His brother likes people, if he remembers correctly. His brother would want to be a part of this gathering.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen real, honest people. He hopes they remember him, he hopes his brother recognizes him.

Before he can convince himself otherwise, he makes his way through the door.

The man behind the counter is the first to notice him, and his eyes go wide.

“Who are you-”

There’s a threat somewhere in his tone but it’s ignored. He doesn’t care about the man, he’s looking for someone he can’t seem to find. There’s a number of people in the dingy room, but none are his brother.

He notices a grizzled old piglins eyes flicker with recognition, for a moment he’s back in the mansion, begging for words to speak.

“Hold on, you-”

He shakes his head, the present. His brother. That’s what matters.

“Where is he.” he doesn’t care about anyone else, they can introduce themselves later. After he’s hugged his brother, teased him about how he’s run the tavern. Told him how proud he is, how sorry he is. “Where’s my brother.”

The previously cheerful mood dies in that very breath, and he searches the room, their faces.

“Where is he!” He tries again, they all look so sad. They shouldn’t be sad, he’s home! His heart thumps wildly in his chest. Even the man with the bushy mustache looks upset, he remembers him. The bank teller, constantly grumpy and tailing after them for rent.

“Kid-” The piglin starts, and his face is horrible for so many reasons, it makes his head spin.

“No..” he doesn’t know what he’s saying it to, can’t comprehend what they’re implying. “No- no he’s here. He has to be here!”

He runs, out of the shop, to the tavern, to his home! The tiny bedroom just off the poker area. But there’s no way in, the doors are barred with two thick wooden boards.

Renovations. This place has always been a shithole, his brother must just want it fixed up. 

He turns, the church. His brother loved the church. He’d loved the windows, all of the colours. He’s in there, he has to be.

Out the corner of his eye he sees the townspeople on the street. They’re walking towards him, there’s so much pity in their eyes. They’re wrong.

He stumbles to the church, frantically scanning the interior after pushing open the heavy wooden door.

He can see it all now, his brother hunched in a pew, enjoying the morning. He’ll call out and his brother will run to him. He’ll hold him tight and he’ll never let go again. They’ll work at the tavern and milk the cows and be together. As they should be.

The church is empty, fractals of bright, colourful light decorate the room but he doesn’t notice.

Bile seizes his throat as he stares down the aisle. His head is fuzzy, cold. This must be the creature, he’s being eaten and it’s tearing him apart one last time before he dies. This can’t be real. 

The door creaks open behind him but he pays it no mind.

He steps down the aisle, slowly, faster.

In front of the altar, he falls to his knees. A thousand words clamber up his throat, strangling him as he reads the plaque resting on the small stand.

Trembling, he learns a name he’s longed to know in the place he’d hoped to never see it.

“John-” he chokes out,

A memorial carved in metal. A boy gone too soon. Lost in the fight for peace.

His baby brother.

He breaks.

He drops to the floor, his frail body wracked with heaving cries. Coarse carpet is rough on his forehead and he wraps his arms around himself as he begs the universe for any form of comfort.

All that he’s sacrificed, all that he’s suffered, all to keep him safe. It wasn’t enough. He failed.

His throat is raw and his voice is wrecked, all in the building can feel his pain bleeding into the air.

The smiles, the warmth, the laughter, the safety, his home. Gone.

In this moment, he wishes the Earth had taken him, so they could be together. So he could hold him and tell him he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s so sorry.

There’s nothing left, no moment in the mansion had felt like this, losing his parents hadn’t even come close. He’d had a purpose then, they’d still had each other then. Nothing before has hurt so viscerally that it felt as if his chest were being cleaved in two. 

The townsfolk stand back as he wails, ravaged by something they could never understand. All these months. All those atrocities. All that horror. Now there will be no After, for all this time he’s been dying bit by bit. Being worn down by cruel hands and supernatural things he can’t understand. But he’d held on to one tiny little piece of himself through it all.

His baby brother is dead, and he can feel all he has left dying with him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi (or tell me your thoughts) on tumblr! @ everyonehasthoughts
> 
> I could use some more dsmp mutuals
> 
> Kudos and Comments appreciated!!
> 
> EDIT: WHAT THE HECK I WAS RIGHT??? NOT ABOUT THE BROTHERS THING BUT RANBUTLER WAS ACTUALLY KIDNAPPED BY BILLIAM. IM A GENIUS WHAT THE HELL


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